The Memory Painter: A Novel (28 page)

She remembered that in Michael’s journal, Finn had recognized her father as Lord Kira. The rage and bloodlust she had felt as Oishi warred against her horror and guilt. Oishi won.

With a war cry, she sprung up and began to destroy everything in sight with the strength of a man twice her size.

She demolished her living room, then moved to the hallway, smashing every framed photograph on the wall. The pictures of her father drove her into the darkest field. The urge to hunt him, to kill him in cold blood, pervaded her psyche.

Her body felt alien to her, her senses sharpened. Every moment, every word, every taste, every scent in Oishi’s life passed through her like the fiercest wind. It took her rage with it and left her numb.

She stared at the broken frames lying jigsawed across the floor. Only one picture remained intact: a photo of Linz’s mother taken just weeks before she had died.

Linz clutched the picture against her heart as if she could somehow embrace her mother’s spirit from the other side. She desperately needed her.

*   *   *

Grace and Rhys Jacobs had been buried at Mount Auburn, one of the country’s oldest cemeteries. A National Historic Landmark, it was only a fifteen-minute drive from Boston.

They had died in a car accident before Linz had turned one, tragically severing their family in half. Linz had no memory of either of them and had only visited Mount Auburn once when she was sixteen, after she had accidentally found the paperwork for the plot in her father’s desk. She knew it was something she was never supposed to see, and she had been too afraid to ask her father why he had never taken her to see their graves.

In their household, there was an unspoken agreement that her mother and brother were never to be discussed, ever. As a child, Linz had naturally been curious about them, but her father would always divert her questions. Over time, she had come to understand that the past was simply too painful for him to discuss, but still, she wished he would share stories about the years before they had died. She would often daydream about how her father and mother had met, what her older brother had been like, and imagine that fateful day when the two of them had gotten in the car and driven away forever.

Linz had gone to the cemetery with Penelope and Derek during her junior year in high school. She had worn a dress and brought flowers. Now as she knelt at her mother’s grave, she felt the same energy she had felt then coursing through her body.

Here, beneath the ground, lay someone integral to her life, someone who had given birth to her and then vanished. Had her mother known about Renovo and that her father had suffered from recalls?
Had she loved him?

Had he killed them too?

Linz closed her eyes and a soft breeze brushed across her face, as if whispering to her to let go of the thought, and she wondered about how different her life would have been if they had lived.

The headstones were cold reminders that she was not yet through the journey, that she had not remembered what she needed to know. But she was getting closer to the truth.

Linz stood up, strengthened. She would return home and take one last dose, come what may. She would remember it all.

THIRTY-SIX

When Bryan opened his eyes, he knew he was dreaming. He was no longer bound in a straitjacket, locked up in the psychiatric ward Conrad had secreted him away to. He was far, far away, trapped inside a hallucination brought on by the drug the orderlies had given him.

He was sitting onboard the T, moving toward an unknown destination. An old couple behind him was talking in Russian, arguing over Nikola Tesla’s theory of electromagnetism. Two seats away, another couple was speaking German, debating Freud’s construct of the ego, Jung’s definition of the collective unconscious, and the demise of the two men’s friendship.

Bryan’s head started to throb and he grew nauseous. Everyone in the car was speaking a language other than English—and Bryan could understand them all.

The train stopped, and he looked up to see Christiaan Huygens stepping into the car, holding the clock that Barbara had found. He took a seat across from Bryan and stared at him all the way to the next station. The ticking pendulum inside the clock grew louder and louder.

The doors opened, and in stepped Alexander Pushkin followed by Lord Asano.

Bryan pressed hard on his temples and focused on his mantra as the train began to move.
I am here now. I’m here now. I’m here now. I’m here now.

The train stopped. The doors opened. And in stepped a hundred people from every time in history imaginable. Bryan knew them all.

He could barely breathe. All the people in his paintings had come to life and decided to ride the subway with him. Everyone stared at him—except Michael, who was sitting beside him, looking out the window. Still, the train did not move. Bryan realized they were waiting for someone.

The Egyptian goddess was the last to board. She escorted Origenes Adamantius onto the train and helped him find a place to sit. His frailty stood in stark contrast to her vitality. After she seated the old priest, she started to walk down the aisle toward Bryan.

When she reached him, she leaned in and spoke softly. “You see time as a stream, a continuous river flowing forward, and you are swimming in it, alone. But it is not. Imagine all your lives at once, all the pieces of your soul boarding the same train. Where are you going? Karma is a distraction to keep you sitting here. See your soul outside of time, and you will arrive at your destination.”

She picked up a lotus flower that was lying at Bryan’s feet. “The door to this train and the flower both open,” she said, laying the flower in Bryan’s hand. Then she disappeared.

With that, the train departed and sped like a bullet through a tunnel as everyone from Bryan’s memories shared the ride. Bryan could hear all of their thoughts and closed his eyes, trying to divorce his mind from the discord. But the voices grew louder and louder until they became a chorus, and the waves of sound washed over him. It reached a powerful crescendo and then faded, leaving a resonance that was soon engulfed by silence.

Bryan opened his eyes to discover that he was no longer on the train. Lotus flowers stretched as far as the eye could see.

HENAN PROVINCE, CHINA

527 AD

Bodhidharma had heard Shaolin rivaled most temples with its beauty. Built during his lifetime in 495 AD on Mount Song’s western peak, it had been named for the young forest planted around it. Emperor Xiaowen had spared no expense.

The temple’s first abbot had been an Indian dhyana master, who, like himself, had come to China to spread Buddhist wisdom. Neither had been the first to make the journey. Buddhism had been taking root in China for several hundred years.

It was brought to the country by the power of one man’s dream. In 70 AD, a golden man with a halo had visited Emperor Ming in his sleep. His advisors had heard of a teacher in the West called Buddha, so the Emperor sent men to India to inquire about his teachings. They returned with scriptures, sutras, and two of Buddha’s disciples to help make sense of them.

Bodhidharma placed great value in dreams—the lotus flowers of the mindstream. He had practiced mediation for many years and had learned the secrets to mastering his body and mind long ago. Each time he meditated, his mind spent more time away from his body, until perhaps one day, he thought, it would not return.

He knew it was time for a long meditation, and Shaolin would be the perfect place. The temple’s main entrance was nestled just beyond the trees, in perfect harmony with the mountain. Bodhidharma could tell that the surrounding bamboo forests would be perfect for outdoor exercises. As he walked closer, the incense wafting from the cast-iron bowls called to his senses. Peace and power lived here. Yes, he thought to himself, I will stay a while.

The head abbot, Fang Chang, rushed out to greet him, accompanied by several others. Bodhidharma was shocked to see how round their bodies were. The monks looked like stuffed dolls, and at six feet, Bodhidharma towered over them. His body was in prime condition, and his black robes made him even more intimidating. He knew he must look a sight with his wild dark hair and long beard. He had been given the name “blue-eyed barbarian” more than once in this country—even though he had been born a prince in India and considered a handsome one. Bodhidharma thought it amusing that the Chinese regarded him as quite the opposite.

He didn’t need a translator to tell him Fang Chang was denying him entry to the temple. He was well-versed in the language and had spent time at court prior to traveling to Shaolin. The Emperor had taken great pride in paying legions of scribes to translate ancient Sanskrit scrolls into Chinese so that they would be accessible to the public, and he had felt this alone would guarantee his path to Nirvana. Bodhidharma had laughed at the naivety of this assumption, which in turn had cut his welcome short. Word of the Emperor’s displeasure must have traveled quickly.

Abbot Fang Chang apologized like a bird chirping too many times. Bodhidharma held up his hand to silence him and asked, “Could you direct me to the nearest cave?”

The abbot looked taken aback. “You want a cave?” He glanced at his men in confusion.

Bodhidharma nodded. “Preferably without bears. I am in need of a meditation.”

The abbot snapped his fingers at the youngest monk. “Huike! Show him to a cave, in the next valley. See that he has food and water.”

Fang began to leave, but Bodhidharma called out, “Abbot?” The old man started and turned around. “Get your men out into the forest for some exercise. These trees can be wonderful teachers.”

To make his point, he jabbed a bamboo trunk. His finger pierced it straight through. The tree did not even sway. The men stood dumbfounded—what they had just seen was not possible.

Bodhidharma bent down and peered at the monks through the hole. “To the cave.” Then he took off, assuming Huike would follow.

As they marched through the forest, Huike tripped and stumbled over his robes to keep up with Bodhidharma’s long-legged stride. “But the caves are this way,” he stammered, struggling to catch his breath.

Bodhidharma didn’t speak and soon he arrived at the cave he had already chosen as his resting place. He went deep inside and laid his mat on the ground near the back wall.

Huike hovered at the cave’s entrance, straining to see Bodhidharma through the shadows. “Shall I bring food and water?” he asked tentatively.

Bodhidharma did not answer: he had already folded his body into a lotus position. His mind had begun its journey.

Huike stayed at the cave entrance for hours, watching the strange Indian monk meditate. Bodhidharma’s body never moved. His breathing was almost imperceptible. Huike came back the next day and then the next, but every day Bodhidharma remained as still as stone.

The monks at Shaolin had never heard of anything like it. Weeks went by. Every day another monk would sneak away from his duties to watch Bodhidharma sit in the cave.

The weeks turned into months, and the monk’s initial astonishment turned into reverence. Abbot Fang assigned a monk to visit the cave once a week to make sure the master still lived. Otherwise, he ordered everyone to stay away so that they would not disturb this holy man.

Through nine falls, nine winters, nine springs, and nine summers, Bodhidharma sat in stillness as the elements performed their dance around him.

*   *   *

Bodhidharma took several breaths to ground himself and willed his Chi to expand. As sensation returned to his body, he was surprised to find his neck was stiff. He moved it from side to side and noticed Huike, asleep on a mat at the cave entrance.

His meditation had given him great insight, and Bodhidharma studied the young man with a thoughtful gaze. Throughout his life, he had felt that he must come to China. Now he understood why.

He took a stick from the ground and gently poked Huike until he was awake.

Huike opened his eyes and screamed as Bodhidharma leaned over him, looking like a phantom covered in dirt. Huike scurried backward in a blind panic until he hit the wall and fell.

The master sat back on his heels and scratched his head, dislocating the bugs that were nesting in his hair. “Why do you run away?”

Huike tried to find his voice. “Are you a ghost?”

Bodhidharma considered the question. “A ghost has no hunger. I am ready for food and water now.”

The monk gaped at him, dumbfounded.

Bodhidharma reminded him, “You did offer, did you not?”

Huike stuttered, “Yes, but that was nine years ago!”

“Nine years?” Bodhidharma’s eyebrows rose. “Then please bring extra rice.”

Huike leapt to his feet and ran off.

Bodhidharma called him back. “Huike, why were you sleeping here?”

Huike bowed low. “Sometimes I come here to watch you. I wish to become your student,” he confessed.

Bodhidharma picked the remaining bugs from his hair and gave them a new home on the rocks that were scattered about the cave’s floor. “Don’t be delusional. I have nothing to teach you.”

Huike took a passionate step forward. “You have everything to teach me.”

“You will not think so in our next life. In fact, you will kill me many times over. I have seen our future.”

During his meditation a goddess had appeared before him with the eyes of an Ancient One. She had shared with him visions of his future selves. He had watched them with great compassion, and then he had felt his spirit returning to his body.

Bodhidharma smiled. At hearing this news, Huike had thrown himself on the ground in a dramatic show of servitude.

“Please, I would rather cut off a limb than do you harm,” Huike said.

“And yet you still have two arms.” Bodhidharma chuckled and stepped over Huike’s body. He walked out of the cave.

Huike jumped up to follow him. “Wait! Where are you going?”

Bodhidharma was already halfway down the mountainside. “To pick berries. You are taking too long with my rice.”